The Comfort Zone
by purple-drake
Summary: The Atlanteans have endured so much. Fear. Anger. Loss. There are few places they can go for peace. But there is a room in Atlantis which possesses serenity, where they can speak without fear and cry without shame. This room is the Comfort Zone.
1. To Feel the Serenity

_I wasn't expecting to write anything else until after my current fic was finished, but this plot bunny was just bouncing off the walls, begging to be written. It starts at the beginning of season 2 and so far it's ongoing, a series of introspective ficlets. Mostly it's just the ramblings of my inner mind, using a certain room within Atlantis as a way to vent my ideas through the characters. Fun, huh? So apologies beforehand if it's confusing.  
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_General spoilers for season 2. No pairings._

_Yanno the drill. I don't own stuff. Similarities between this and any other fic are coincidental.

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Silence.

That's all he heard now; the only thing echoing in the air of the quarters, aside from the rustle of his clothes, the thud of the cartons' lids as he closed them, locked them, not to be opened until they'd reached Earth. And even then, he didn't know what would happen to them; whether they'd be taken and locked away, in a farce of non-existence, or if they'd be opened with grieving hands, their contents removed and displayed for the memories they held.

It wasn't fair.

_When is life ever fair?_

Never. But it didn't matter. It still wasn't fair.

The final container closed with a thud, the locks snapping into place, the box lifted with a grunt and stacked on top of the others. He stepped back to review them, the meagre possessions, now hidden away.

Is that what always happens in death? He wondered. Is that what would happen if he died? Have his belongings packed away, carted around until they found his next of kin, their memories contained and exclusive to a select few? His room cleaned until no evidence of his existence remained, his things on display until it was decided that nup, other things were more important; after all, that happened a while ago, we should be over it by now? People speaking about him in past tense, no longer alive and no longer important, history and time passing him by, nothing more than a tiny pebble on the riverbed? Just another name, another person lost to the ultimate end everyone knows could be waiting just around the corner?

Is that what life was all about? To struggle and hope and love, only to be wiped from existence as though you were never there, one day alive and the next simply gone? How much point was there to life if you never made a difference, made no changes, was simply a footnote in the grand scheme of things?

None, that's how much. No point, no remains, simply silence.

With a sigh he removed his glasses, scrubbing at his black-ringed eyes, and stared blankly, tiredly, around at the bare walls, the neatly made bed. It looked like they'd just arrived, and the room was unclaimed. Like no one had been there at all.

It wasn't fair. It's wasn't fair that someone could strive for so long and hard, only to have the universe forget they'd ever lived.

Replacing his glasses, his vision suddenly captured something he'd missed before: the tiniest of tears marring the smooth grey blanket, settled just behind the thread looping over the hem. The fibre was ragged, pulled, as though it had been long ignored. For a moment he stared, uncertain, before his gaze swept over the hard lines of the room with new eyes.

There; a stain on the wall, where he'd used adhesive to put up a framed picture or certificate. And again – the slightest of chips in the glass of that cabinet. A scratch on the crimson floor, where his chair had slid out from the desk. A pencil mark on the tabletop.

The more he looked, the more he saw evidence that someone had, indeed, lived there. More than that – he could see the actions which had created those marks, those remnants of someone's life. And suddenly the room didn't seem so empty; didn't seem so silent. Because he could still see him, even if it were only in his mind's eye.

Radek Zelenka smiled and picked up the crates, leaning back under their weight as he cast one last, critical eye over the room. There wasn't much left, but what remained would remember.

There didn't need to be words for there to be sound.


	2. Standing in Place

He stood.

Frozen in time, staring, wondering why on Earth or Lantis he'd come here of all places.

Except that he wanted to be alone.

He often wanted to be alone, lately, in the past year. You'd think that on a city the size of Atlantis it would be easy; but no. If you went out of the inhabited areas you stood out like a sore thumb on the internal sensors; if you went to a balcony nearby someone was sure to find you. Everyone looked to the sea for thought. It was one of the constants of the city, after all.

But so too was this room. No one would violate the sanctity of this room. He wasn't sure why, either; after all, it was empty, free, yet none of the new staff had claimed it. And since Radek had last been there, no one else had dared its threshold. It seemed disrespectful, somehow.

Now, though…

Now, it seemed appropriate.

After all, last time, hadn't he vowed never to let anyone down again?

And he'd failed.

It seemed appropriate to come here to remember.

And yet, he couldn't find it in himself to enter. He simply stood there, nose to the door, alone in the night-shrouded hallway.

It seemed that was what he always did nowadays. He simply stood there, while his team members, his _friends,_ died around him. Gaul. Hayes. Peter. He never moved to interfere, never did anything except linger and witness their demise. He'd hoped it was over. The Wraith pulled back, unaware of their continued existence. He'd done that. That had been his idea. If he could do that, he could stop everything else from happening. He could step forward. He could do something.

Except it hadn't turned out that way. Not for Lindstrom. He'd watched his colleague get sucked out into space, and all he did was stand there. Again.

Why was that? He was a genius. Why couldn't he figure out how to make that one little step, do that little extra bit which would keep his friends from dropping like flies? Who would be next, unless he figured out how to take that step?

And even if he did take that step… what if he tripped? What if there really was nothing he could have done to save them? What if there was nothing he could do to save whoever was next?

Of course there was. There was always a way. He was the genius. It was his job to figure it out. That's why he was there.

He took the step.


	3. Trailing Behind

_Yay! I got… one… review! Thanks Thedummie2, it's good to know you can imagine Zelenka thinking it – I was a little unsure about that. As for Ronan, well, mostly these are random ideas that catch my fancy when I'm in a philosophical mood, so we'll see if I think of anything for him, huh?

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He trailed.

He didn't know exactly what it was he was following; all he knew was that he followed _something._ Did it matter, really? Wherever he went, whatever he followed, he always got there too late.

He heard footsteps coming down the corridor, unwelcome, unwanted, and ducked without thinking through the nearest door. It was a moment before he realized where he was, but by then the footfalls had approached and he could do nothing but remain.

So instead he sank onto the bed, stretching his legs across its width to hang down the side, back against the wall. There was no harm in staying for a while. It was quiet, and it was private, and that's what he wanted.

Because he didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to hear Caldwell's recriminations. He didn't want to hear Rodney's sarcastic, self-centred remarks, or Elizabeth's reassurances, or see Beckett's guilt or Teyla's frustration. He just didn't. He didn't need it. He knew he'd missed his chance.

Ford had been right there. They'd all been on the same planet, in the same region, in the same damned forest, and once again he'd been too slow. Once again, he'd been far, far behind, while Rodney had been ahead, facing Ford's unstable sanity alone.

Hadn't been the same on Earth, too? In Afghanistan? And then again, in the Wraith hiveship; trailing behind in his newly named puddlejumper, too late to give Colonel Sumner anything except a quicker end. And then on Atlantis itself, once, twice, three times… too late to stop McKay from walking into electrifying darkness, too late to get to the control room to provide defence against the invading Genii, too late to save the scientists under his care while they were terrorised by nanites… too late, too far behind, with no hope of catching up.

And still, he knew he wouldn't stop. He could keep going, keep slogging on way too far in the rear, arriving up only in time to see the aftermath, or he could just give up and reject witnessing the outcome as all those people had deserved. Someone had to be there to pick up the remains; someone had to be there to remember. So he'd keep going on.

Maybe he'd catch up later.


	4. Wandering, Uncertain

_Oh, hello, peoples! (pokes Incendofilius) hey, you reviewed! No one tell him what the room is if you guess, he's been bugging me about it since I published! Lol!_

_I'm glad you liked it, Rojoca, though I was surprised and interested that you found it calming. I would have considering it kind of depressing in a way, but now you mention it I guess I can see how you'd see it like that._

_Hi again, fififolle! Don't worry, Zelenka's not dead; he was just reflecting on death. Rodney's little piece is completely unrelated; the only connection between each of these is the order they go in. They were originally intended as introspective tags for season 2 and any forthcoming episodes, but Thedummie2 gave me an idea for Ronan that I just couldn't pass up – so now they really are random! And yeah, you're probably right – not so much comfort. But 'Comfort Zone' was so much easier to say than 'Brief Respite from Hell Zone' (grins)_

_Anyway! Moving on…

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She wandered.

She didn't know exactly where she was going, not like she usually did. It was her job to know where to go, to help her patients find that same path that she saw so clearly. It was her job to find the way, to guide people when they were lost. And yet, in this instance… she was so far out of her league, she didn't even know if what she was doing was making any positive difference or not.

And the worst thing was, she had no one to ask opinions of.

Instead she roamed through the halls of the city, darkened by night-time, the hum of the technology's crystals the only sound to be heard. She liked to think it was to clear her mind with the refreshing, cool sea breeze, but it never ended up being that. She always made her rounds, checking doors, rooms, making sure that those under her care were sleeping well – and marking those that weren't. She knew that Doctor Weir often did something much the same; it was an unspoken occupation they both held, both worried for their children.

When she came to the door she paused and entered silently, like she had with all the others, even though she knew it was empty. Unlike the others, however, when she'd crossed only a step or two over the threshold, just enough to see the slumbering men and women, she strode to the centre of the shadowed floor, turning slowly in place to survey the bare walls.

This room had spurred several difficult sessions for more than one member of the expedition, not so long ago. Well… not the room itself, she reflected, her eyes travelling over the unused bed, the vacant desk. But who had owned the room. She hadn't known him as well as some others, though he had provided her with a nice conversation or two.

She wasn't surprised it was still empty. Most of the rooms once owned by those they had lost had never been claimed by the newest staff as an unconscious mark of respect, an acknowledgement of what the original expedition members had been through. And yet this room still retained something; a calming remnant of the person who'd once lived there. It was comforting, somehow, to know that something as old as Atlantis was still willing to remember its inhabitants, remember people who had striven to pave the way in a new galaxy, a new quest for knowledge.

And perhaps, she mused, that was all she could really do. Even after a year on Atlantis everything was too new for her to hope to apply old concepts to every case. No psychiatrist on Earth had ever had to worry about two strong-willed people trapped in the same body, two completely independent consciousnesses sharing the same space. It had to be difficult on both of them, especially considering their opposing genders; but she felt so helpless, like there was little she could do to assist. She had helped Cadman learn to take control of Rodney's body, only to have her hijack it in the middle of the night; she had wrestled with Rodney to give Cadman some leeway, only for him to take it back. It was spiralling out of control.

How could she show them the way when she didn't know it herself?

But that was the nub of the problem, wasn't it? No one knew the way. If they knew the way then this room probably wouldn't be empty. The unknown was the very thing that made their jobs the adventure it was; the adventure, and the risk. Every one of them had known that, coming there.

Perhaps she had an issue with control herself. She was all about it; she had to teach it to her patients. But out here… some things simply could not be controlled.

Her job was to show people the path, and it was hard when she was in the dark herself. But perhaps… as long as she was in front, and paving the way, then they'd both reach the end safely.

Even if she had to wander a little bit first.


	5. Leave Naught But Footfalls

_Oh, I've written for Ronan, you can bet on that, Thedummie2! It's not quite time to post it yet, but it is done. Thanks for reviewing, peoples! Oh, I can't remember who it was, but someone wrote a fic about Weir doing some nightly rounds, checking up on people... If you read this, I hope you don't mind if I used the same. It fit too well to pass up.  
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_This concept is one of my favourites, I think; this and the first one.

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Footsteps.

They echoed softly in the night, almost as mesmerizing a sound as the blessed silence that surrounded her. There was often so much noise; people talking, alarms blaring, guns firing… now there was only silence.

And her footsteps.

_Take nothing but memories. Leave naught but footprints._

Why footprints? She had always wondered that. Footprints were as real as any rock or flower, just as easily seen, as easily noted for their existence. Footsteps would be better. Footsteps didn't last more than a moment, gone as soon as they sounded, leaving nothing behind.

Leave nothing behind… no one behind. How little that worked. How difficult that ethic was to uphold. Her heart so often cried out that it was right, but her mind had to decide between what was right and what was practical.

At least, on this occasion, it had worked. They had not left anyone behind. None of their own, at least.

But they had left footprints.

She came to the door and stopped, knowing there was nothing there but unable to beat the compulsion that if she looked inside as she had all the other doors in the hall, watching over her children, then something – some_one_ would be there.

There was no one.

She sank onto the bed, listening to the faint echo of her footsteps fade away.

On this occasion, they had left an entire race to die at the hands of the Wraith. They had gone in intending only to retrieve their own people, save them from the hardship-toughened men offered as a sacrifice for the rest of the nation.

But their footprints… their footprints had doomed them all. Set in wet sand, irrevocable, until the surf of passing time washed them away to be forgotten years into the future.

Footsteps wouldn't have left such a mark… they would have sounded and faded in the same instant, leaving nothing behind, nothing…

Nothing but a memory.

This time she looked, really looked, at the shadowed walls, the unused desk. There were no footprints here. There were only footfalls. Footfalls that had the room remembering, a faint resonance of the person who'd once lived there. Perhaps in time it would fade. Perhaps not.

They were one in the same, she realized. Footprints. Footsteps. One left a physical remnant; the other left the whisper of a memory. Both of them left something.

Wherever they explored, wherever they walked, whether they changed something or not, it would not change the fact that they were there. It would not change the fact that the footprints had been made, that the footfalls had sounded; wherever they went, something remained.

Perhaps all they could do was watch where they stepped.


	6. Too Fast, too Furious

_Hello again, peoples! I'm not American, Thedummie2, but thanks anyway! Updates should come pretty quickly (for me, anyway, considering I tend to take ages) until I run out of material – which will come at about 'the Lost Boys', since the second half of the season hasn't started airing where I am yet, and I do get my inspiration from the episodes themselves._

_Anyway! Thanks for reviewing, the both of ya, and enjoy.

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He paced.

Round and round and round, tracing invisible lines on the floor, skirting the walls, the desk, the bed… unending, swift, his every step filled with nervous energy. When he'd tried to sleep his thoughts assaulted him, until finally he'd retreated from his accusing room to seek sanctuary in a place far quieter, far more peaceful. Far more secure.

In a way it simply made his mind race faster, piling on the guilt of, once again, failing one of his own, forsaking the opportunity to avoid a repeat of the disaster in favour of his arrogance.

As though it were an echo of his often rapid thinking, his stride lengthened until the room was too small to contain him and he longed to burst out of the small, contained tower he'd built around himself. But to leave the room would be to subject others to his state of mind, let them see how his overconfidence tormented him. They didn't need that. They didn't want that. They wanted him to be calm, collected. Instead he lashed out with his feet, kicking at the bed as he passed, at the desk, the walls, until the furniture had lurched from their positions into a melee of lopsided victims.

It was always the way; he moved quickly, too quickly, leaving everyone behind, every_thing_ behind, everything except the goal he could see in the distance. And somewhere along the line his sense of caution, his compassion, his restraint, was inevitably lost to the speeding track of ideas. It put a whole new meaning to the term 'roadkill'.

And still he found himself unable to stop. Always moving, looking ahead, refusing to turn around and look behind; even though he knew that behind him was a series of bumps in the road, ridges that signified the people he'd let down and were ultimately swallowed by a constant.

With a final blow at the slanting bed that made the pillow flop to the darkened floor he stopped short, body tense, breathing hard, his hands nervously twitching fists by his side. Slow down… he just needed to slow down…

Before he realized, a sharp bark of a laugh burst out of him. If he slowed down perhaps he wouldn't leave so many people behind; but those same people expected him to be so many steps ahead, to catch disaster before it reached them. Sometimes he failed. Sometimes he went too far… they wanted, _needed,_ him to be quick, decisive. They needed him to be _right._

Was right and speed the same thing? He wondered. No, it wasn't. Speed got you there first, that's all. And he needed to get there first. The city depended on him getting there first. Except this time, he'd been going so fast he overshot the station. He couldn't afford to do that; he realized that now. They depended on him to go at steady pace as much as they depended on him to be a few steps ahead. If he lacked in either way, he couldn't curtail whatever was coming.

But it was so hard… so hard. He didn't even know if _they_ knew what they asked of him; they just asked. And expected. And he found himself wondering whether it would've been so bad if it'd been, say, Kavanaugh.

Instantly the thought was no. There would have been anger, yes, but not disappointment. They expected _him,_ McKay, to be right all the time; they did not expect the same of Kavanaugh. And when he failed that standard, the disappointment was all the more bitter.

It was like being back in school. He needed to be right, to be on top, all the time; and if ever he wasn't, there was nothing turned his way but disappointment.

He just had to slow down a little. Just a little; just enough to regain control.

Then, maybe, he could get back on track.


	7. A Beast of War

_Hmn, interesting... I didn't even consider Zelenka when I was writing it. I was just kind of... rambling... which is probably why the identity of the person was so confusing... anyway. Thanks for the reviews!  
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_I've had this one written since about chapter 3, and now I finally get to post it. Just for you, Thedummie2. Enjoy!

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He prowled.

He didn't know exactly where to go in this strange city he now inhabited; he hadn't found any parks, any place where he could conceivably escape from the sheer technological standard. It was so far beyond him and he knew it; and these people, just barely living on the threshold of understanding, were beyond him too.

They still looked at him differently, he knew. He could see it when they passed, when he spoke – or didn't – when he fought… he had been away from civilisation for so long. He had never seen the civilisation they were used to. They saw him for his skill, his soldiery, and that was all.

'They wouldn't understand,' she had said, and he knew that she was right. These people, these people of technology and science, diplomacy, of morals, would not understand his need to kill the man who had betrayed his nation with his own cowardice. It would just prove to them, without a doubt, that he was what they believed him to be: a beast, barely tameable, but an asset as long as he was controlled. Even Sheppard, sometimes, with his desire for restraint, looked at him that way, with that wary expression. It was like they were waiting for him to learn, conform, the way that Teyla had.

Now he found himself wondering why he remained.

He was no longer alone; he knew that. He had found others of his race, others who were as good as his kin, and still he stayed. It was not the technology, the superiority, the desire to learn what his own culture had missed; then what was it?

A door to the side slid open with a hiss, surprising him, and a figure emerged from the darkened room before stopping short on the step.

"Ronan," McKay said, startled, rumpled and tired, looking guilty. "I was just, uhm…" He gestured behind him, tumbling over his words, twitchy, uncomfortable, as though he'd been caught somewhere he wasn't supposed to be. "I was just – getting something." He returned Ronan's calm stare with a strangely uncertain one of his own. "Yeah. G'night." And he slipped past, hurrying down the corridor as if afraid of an inquisition.

Ronan turned to the room, studied the still-open door, stalking inside to find the quarters bare and vacant aside from the most basic furniture. All of it was resting awkwardly in place, but it was the bed that caught his eye the most, the covers strewn in an echo of anger, the pillow slumped on the floor. And he understood. This was one of the empty rooms, one of the ones the Atlanteans had so carefully avoided giving him. McKay had not come here to retrieve any material possession; he had come to remember, to think, to be alone after the disaster that Ronan had heard of.

He considered the rumpled covers and frowned, moving to smooth them carefully back into place.

Here, McKay had not been the genius he proclaimed, not a victim of his own confidence, not a man of technology and science. He had simply been a man. A man who fought, who grieved, who erred. Who strove to remember, to redeem himself, to do his people justice through his work.

Ronan was a soldier. So was McKay. Different forces, different skills, but soldiers nonetheless, fighting for the same thing regardless of their knowledge, their technology, their understanding; fighting for the freedom of all peoples. And making mistakes along the way.

Perhaps he was a beast of war. If so, so were they.

They just hid it better.


	8. A Different Sort of Plague

_This one took a little longer simply because I didn't have as many clear ideas as I did for the others; it really is a ramble, since I didn't know what I was doing when I first began, and just let flow. But anyway, thanks for your nice reviews (I keep coming back to read them!) and I hope you enjoy!_

_Oh, I tell you though, I'd love for all you closet readers to review. I keep seeing the same names, but somehow I don't think they could account for over a thousand hits on their own! (puppy dog eyes) Review?

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Guilt.

It warred within him, a different battle to the ones to which he all-too-often saw the frequently bloody aftermath, to the one he so recently fought. Gnawing, stabbing, relentless, it interrupted his sleep, his work, twisting his insides until he felt he couldn't breathe.

People expected so much of him, and they had the right to. He was a doctor; the health, the safety, of everyone in Atlantis belonged to him. And yet… and yet, it wasn't enough. He could set bones, stitch cuts, soothe burns, but there were some things… some injuries… he just couldn't heal.

Let alone in himself.

He felt exhausted; he needed somewhere to go, somewhere to hide for a while. Because if he didn't, he knew he'd be called back to the infirmary. He didn't know whether it was because of his nature, his desire to be involved in every case that walked through the infirmary doors, but somehow everyone turned to him as their doctor, even though he had a skilled staff to take over.

He didn't intend to go _there_ at first, but by the time he'd arrived and stepped inside it seemed entirely natural. Where else had he gone to get a few moments' rest, a friend's ear to bend for a few minutes? And even though the room was now empty he felt himself relax. It was calmer here than outside; somehow untouched, left alone. He needed that. He needed that distance. Because outside… outside was the plague.

The plague that not even he could cure.

It ran rampant through the halls of the city, a disease that the leaders of the city seemed most susceptible to.

Now it was his turn.

And for him, it had come in the form of a struggling, tormented Wraith girl. He had held her hope in the palm of his hand… and he'd taken it for granted, he'd allowed his scientific mind, even his desire to help, to get the better of him. He shouldn't have said anything… shouldn't've…

But he had.

And now it was too late.

He'd turned that girl, that Wraith girl who'd possessed the will and the yearning to become something other than a creature of death, into a monster.

And he couldn't help her.

He couldn't even help _himself._

How could he help his friends, his patients, his _charges,_ when he couldn't even save himself?

Not against this plague. Not against others of a mental kind.

But he was a doctor.

He knew better than anyone that sometimes… you have to let a sickness run its course.

And it was hard… so hard. It wasn't something he could cure. He knew better than anyone, now, that he couldn't cure everything. And some things would end in death.

But he could watch. He could care. He could treat the symptoms… and hope that the disease would pass. That's all he could do. All anyone could do.

He hoped it would be enough.


	9. Letting Down the Guard

**A/N:** _Could it be? Yes! An update!_

_I'm really sorry this one took so long, but I have two reasons: number 1, this particular episode was the one for which I got the least inspiration and number 2, my laptop died at the end of last year and it's taken me this long to get another. My dad's computer was available for use, but it just didn't get my creative juices flowing, you know?_

_Without further ado…

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He dozed.

He didn't mean to. In one way it was the last thing he wanted; he'd come so close to sleeping forever not too long ago. And yet, in here, he somehow felt as though the world outside didn't exist. It felt so watchful, as though he could sleep and nothing would happen, or if it did then someone would be there to catch it.

That was the problem, wasn't it?

_He_ was supposed to catch it. He was the one who was supposed to be on watch, who wasn't supposed to miss any of it. Yet he did. Somehow, he did. He was always sleeping; just like now. Sleeping when he was on watch. And because of it, he missed things. He missed the fact that he was changing. He missed the fact they were planning a mission that ended in disaster. He missed the chance to save his men, missed his last shreds of sanity…

Missed the fact that Caldwell was trying to take over his command…

In one way he felt like it'd be better if Caldwell took over. At least that way _he_ wouldn't be on watch all the time. Only he knew it wouldn't work, knew it was selfish reasoning, and knew that he'd never be able to abide it. Caldwell missed nothing and let the wrong things go, but if he was on watch then John would miss out on the biggest thing of all.

Maybe he did miss things… but there were other things he caught. Like the loyalty of his team mates. Like the chance to do something right.

If only he could stop sleeping while he was on watch…


	10. The Virtue of Patience

**A/N:** _This one's been written almost from the beginning, and it's taken this long to be posted. Pitiful, huh?_

_Enjoy.

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Patiently.

That was how it waited. Enduring, solid, ready to be used at a moment's notice. During the sunlight hours it was often alone, empty save for the memories, but at night it was visited often by those in need of somewhere to hide. Now that was what it waited for, anticipating someone to come in response to the needs of the day. Endlessly, patiently, it waited.

It had heard pleas for help and rants of anger, seen tears of frustration and the lassitude of despair. Whatever it witnessed it contained within its walls, private, secret, the only observer to the weakness of the people. It never answered, but it didn't need to; all it needed – all _they_ needed – was to absorb, retain, and remember.

It was the last resort, the place where people could unload their anguish and know that when they left it would remain there. It didn't need, nor want, it simply remembered. Yet despite the company, it was the solitude that it anticipated the most. People only went there when they were walking the precipice, the point of collapsing and never arising again. It encouraged fear, despair, anger; it had welcomed a steady stream of desolate individuals into its walls.

And so it waited for someone, anyone, to arrive again. They always did. They always would.

Day turned to night and it waited, unaware of the sombre gathering far above, in the nub of the city, toasting brave men, brave women, bravery.

It would not be needed this night.


	11. To Sit on One's Hands

**A/N:** _Doesn't anyone like these anymore? (pouts) no reviews for two chapters! Well, they were short, I'll admit._

_This'll be the last for a while, because I haven't got much inspiration at all for the second half of the season, so I'll just have to wait on that.

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She sat.

She was always sitting. She was always waiting. Waiting while her people were out there, fighting, trading, dying…

Waiting to see if they'd come back alive and unhurt.

Too often, they didn't. Too often, they were killed or changed or hurt, and she lost them, and all because she had to sit and wait.

Intellectually she knew there wasn't much she could do if she was out there; she'd just be in the way, a diplomat who only knew how to use a gun because her military advisor had made her learn, but it was still difficult to tell herself that they'd be safer without her.

Survivor's guilt, they called it, only she had 'waiter's guilt'.

And then there were those times when she knew without a doubt that something was wrong – even if she didn't have proof – but she couldn't _do_ anything. If she could she'd go out and dig up rocks or whatever along with everyone else.

That was the price of being the leader.

She got all that authority, the chance to do things right, she got a nice office and quarters and a cushy chair that she never sat in because she was too busy sitting on her hands instead.

She always saw at a distance, received the news second-hand from those who saw what happened… this room was a prime example of that. A prime example of having to sit back in relative safety while her people went out and did what they had to do and got killed.

She was tired of it; she wanted to go out and share the danger with them. Only she couldn't. Because her flagship team was missing again, and she didn't know where they were. All she knew was that something was wrong and she had to wait while more of her people went out to find them.

But at least she'd be here when they got back. In one piece, or two, or a dozen, she'd be there to greet them when they came through. That's what they depended on her for; just to be there when they got back. A constant presence, something that they could rely on just like she relied on the constant patience and peace of this room.

Only, she was damned tired of sitting on her hands…


End file.
